


Strange Beasts

by alby_mangroves



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur’s bright eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin’s chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries so hard to stamp them down, to blacken them to coal with the force of denial, but they won’t be squashed." Not even magic can stop fate from collecting its toll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purple

Overripe summer pervades Merlin’s senses, and he scratches his fingers into the soil on which he lies, the way he used to when he was a boy.  
  
He would run to the wheat fields as fast as gangly legs could carry him, hide from his chores among the rustling flaxen sea and tune out his thoughts, concentrating instead on all the smells and sounds of the world. With his eyes closed, Merlin would pretend he was but a wispy breeze, stirring the golden fields as he flew past, so carefree.  
  
It’s much harder to dispel the noise of duty and destiny and real life these days, now that he’s an adult with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. So much has changed since he arrived at Camelot; moments of peace are hard to find, and almost impossible to steal.  
  
He might not be among the wheat of his childhood home today, but the moorlands near the castle have received his intrusion just as well. In the heather he lays, arms and legs outstretched and fingers dug into the ground, as though tethering himself to the world where he sometimes feels like such an outsider.  
  
Merlin lets the sway of the moor take him until all that remains is the solid earth beneath and the endless sky above. Shadows of clouds drift over him in a welcome respite from the heat of the midday sun. Birdsong of little whitethroats sounds like home, and purple heather brushes against his skin, coarse and real, beauty with a dark undertone.  
  
Lulled by the rhythm of the land, Merlin dozes peacefully for the first time since beginning his unwanted advancement to the prat prince’s service. Here on the moor, he is just Merlin the man, rather than Arthur’s peon.  
  
Time passes as imperceptibly as the meandering sun in the sky, and he doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but when his eyelids flutter open to the waning afternoon, Merlin thinks himself to be dreaming.  
  
The shade he feels settling over him is not from a cloud, but a man. Merlin blinks, confused, and the man lowers himself until he’s almost too close for comfort. Merlin raises a hand to his squinting eyes, trying to shield them against the orange sun which burns like a coronet about the man’s head and it’s not until he hovers just inches away that Merlin recognizes the prince.  
  
Cold fingers of dread crawl up his back, inch by inch, until his entire body tingles with embarrassment at being caught wasting the day away instead of all that pointless buffing and sharpening and goddamned stable-mucking. But no matter what he expects to read on Arthur’s face, it is not the mirth in a quirked lip and raised brow.  
  
Arthur’s bright eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin’s chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries so hard to stamp them down, to blacken them to coal with the force of denial, but they won’t be squashed.  
  
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Arthur says, stooping over Merlin with an arm braced across his knee, white teeth gleaming in a wide smile.  
  
Merlin opens his mouth to voice the _I’m sorry_ , and _just a break_ , and _coming right back_ , but his words wither before they’re born as Arthur claps a cool hand over his sun-warmed shoulder and sags to the ground beside him, sighing.  
  
Turning his face up to the sun, Arthur lies in silence, his shoulder touching Merlin’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world to laze in the heather with one’s manservant.  
  
With every breath he takes, Merlin feels where their shoulders rub slightly against each other. He would move if he could, but Arthur’s not moving, and if Arthur’s not moving, then Merlin can’t move, for fear of slighting his master. He grits his teeth against whatever it is that’s radiating from that bony nub of his shoulder and burning him up inside. He’s intent on riding it out, for it must end sometime, mustn’t it?  
  
And so they lie in the rustling purple field, one dozing, and the other more awake than he’s ever been in his life.


	2. Sweet

Tiny flames float in their hundreds above revellers in the dining hall; the place looks positively festive tonight, decorated with fresh wreaths of berries, and boughs, and fruit.  
  
Retreating as far back as he can without being downright rude, Merlin stands bathed in shadow.  
  
Keeping still is hard for a natural fidget, and behind his back, his fingers dance along to the tune of his thoughts which still lie in that fragrant meadow of sun-warmed heather.  
  
He smooths the cuff of his sleeve over and over, burnishing it with his touch just for something to do, somewhere to focus all these runaway thoughts.  
  
Merlin is restless, but he doesn’t know why. He would run, would sprint to burn off some of this anxiety, but it’s not possible. His presence is required here, under the same candles which settle their warmth on a head crowned in golden hair, brighter than any metal.  
  
He tells himself that he watches Arthur because he must, because he’s the prince’s manservant and must be here to anticipate needs and provide service.  
  
He tells himself he can look away any time he likes, and that his shoulder still tingles because... well, better let Gaius look into that- maybe it’s an allergy to the heather, and nothing at all to do with Arthur’s shoulder touching it.  
  
He watches Arthur entertain a visiting nobleman’s daughters, pretty girls both, and wishes he could run, from the hall and from the keep, just run under the moonlight until there is nothing else but the burn in his muscles and the breath in his lungs.  
  
Arthur inclines his head toward his pretty guests as one of them draws close to whisper in his ear, and Merlin holds his breath, almost, almost on the verge of plucking her words from the air and turning them into toads to fall in her lap.  
  
He doesn’t care what she’s saying, not at all. He cares only that there is a girl’s pretty mouth murmuring things so close to Arthur’s ear and there’s nothing in life that could have prepared Merlin to feel what he feels in this moment.  
  
He closes his eyes and swallows hard, keeping his magic down like bile.  
  
When he opens them, it’s only shock that keeps him in place.  
  
The girl is reaching her little fingers into Arthur’s collar and plucking out a tiny sprig from between the Prince’s shirt and ceremonial tunic.  
  
She flicks it away as though it were nothing but dust, and Merlin’s eyes follow it to its resting place behind Arthur’s chair, where it’s immediately crushed by a passing servant.  
  
Merlin can’t tear his eyes from it, this little broken twiglet, and though it bears no purple crown, he knows it’s heather from the moor. Instantly, the vague dislike he feels for the girl ripens into open hostility so sudden that he grits his teeth against it.  
  
Looking up, he finds Arthur’s eyes—mild and already a little glassy—on his, in a fond expression so out of place on the prat Prince’s face that it’s downright bizarre. It’s like looking at an entirely new person. One who isn’t an arse.  
 _  
It’s the wine,_ Merlin thinks, _he’s drunk, or nearly_. Whatever the reason, it makes no difference to Merlin’s chest, which seems too narrow for all these big feelings.  
  
Merlin’s insides are churning and he wants to look down but he can’t, not when Arthur’s eyes are soft and heavy like this, and dark and deep like the woods that surround Camelot.  
  
And it’s only a moment, but long enough for one of the sisters to wonder why Prince Arthur’s attention is hers no longer. She follows Arthur’s eyes to the boy in the shadows, her dismissive gaze crawling up and down Merlin’s lanky body, from his old boots all the way to his stupid big ears. Merlin can smell her confusion even over his own.  
  
In the end, Arthur grants him reprieve by holding up his goblet, mouth smirking in an expression so familiar as to give Merlin the push to remember himself.  
  
“No more wine, Merlin, bring me something sweet,” he requests, and the girls turn back to the table thinking the riddle solved, the Prince theirs once more, but Arthur doesn’t turn away. His eyes smile lazily at Merlin, and all of a sudden there is an itch between the boy’s ribs, right where a slim dagger would fit, stabbed home by a battle-skilled hand.  
  
“My Lord,” Merlin murmurs, bowing.  
  
He sets off in search of a servant with a tray, snatching up a jug of honey mead for his Prince, even the crushed heather sprig—which had seemed so vital only moments ago—forgotten in his eagerness to serve. When he returns to Arthur’s side, the Prince’s full attention is once more on his father’s guests.  
  
As it should be, chants Merlin’s self-doubt from its cave in his spleen, and he believes it, for why would Arthur want Merlin’s company when he has that of his equals?  
  
Swallowing down the heat from Arthur’s earlier gaze, Merlin extends himself over a gap between bodies to pour sweet mead into the Prince’s silver goblet. Before Merlin is gone again, Arthur takes it up and drinks deeply, the kernel of his Adam’s apple clearly the most fascinating sight since the Great Dragon beneath the keep, because it has all of Merlin’s attention.  
  
When Arthur sets aside the goblet, a small spill dribbles down his chin, and he wipes it absently with his sleeve. It glistens there in a sweet, moist smear, and Merlin would breathe if he could, he really would.  
  
“I will need you soon,” Arthur says, his eyes smiling and heavy, and the point of the dagger finds the perfect place from which to bleed Merlin’s heart dry.  
  
He lets it slide in between his ribs and holds the hilt tight lest it tries to slip out.


	3. Smoke

Emerging from the bustle and noise of the dining hall into the castle's darkened corridors feels like stepping from daylight into night.

Listing under Arthur's weight and scraping his knuckles on the stone wall, Merlin hisses under his breath and tightens his grip around Arthur's waist.

Heavy wooden doors clang closed behind Merlin and his warm burden, and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and ears roaring with sudden silence.

With Arthur's heavy arm slung across his shoulders, Merlin alternates between awkward shuffling and ungainly lumbering.

Swearing under his breath, he maneuvers his way down the corridor, trying not to slam them both into the unforgiving granite.

Seemingly oblivious, the Prince is a solid weight of relaxed muscle draped over Merlin's bony shoulders.

Smiling like a glassy-eyed loon, Arthur stumbles, reflexively tightening his arm around Merlin's neck, head lolling until it finds a home nestled under Merlin's jaw.

"You know," he slurs hot breath into Merlin's neck, "I've lived here m'whole life."

"Yes, Arthur, I know that," Merlin replies with a grunt. It's so very hard to concentrate on the discomfort of their awkward embrace rather than on the heat from Arthur's large hand dangling over Merlin's sternum, and flaxen hair snagging on the scruff peppering Merlin' jaw.

"I've met quite a few people, too," Arthur continues with a drunk's conviction, warm and solid and all over Merlin like an inebriated stole.

"Royalty and noblemen, countless performers and strange beasts..." Arthur's voice drifts in the deserted corridor, and it's probably just Merlin's imagination, but Arthur's heavy arm flexes infinitesimally, his bicep and forearm pincer-tight around Merlin's neck.

Merlin has been elbow-deep in Arthur’s dirty clothes and bedding. He has emptied the Prince’s chamber pot and prepared his bath, but somehow, until this very moment, he never knew Arthur smelled of warm leather and clean sweat. He’s not sure how he missed it, but there it is, right in his nose like a spike to the brain—the unmistakable _tang_ of the man.

Unable to escape the Prince’s surprisingly strong grip, he stumbles along with Arthur anchored solidly against him, and the scent of him is so close and heady Merlin can barely think straight.

“Your cushy life has been one big party, I’m sure,” Merlin forces out, finally hefting Arthur’s weight down the corridor and into the doorway of the Prince’s chambers, where he leans them both against the doorjamb.

He tries to extricate himself from Arthur’s drunken embrace, but the Prince won’t release him, won’t relax his hold.

“Please, Arth—“

“But none, _Mer_ lin, none so strange a beast as _you_ ,” Arthur continues as if he hasn’t heard Merlin answer, murmuring into the taut skin of Merlin’s throat.

He lifts his blond head, and it suddenly seems that he’s not as drunk as Merlin had thought. Arthur’s even breaths are tainted with the sweetness of honey mead, and his eyes are sharp and curious in the dim corridor, candle-flame echoes dancing within them like fairies on the lake.

A foreign sharpness twists between Merlin’s ribs again, and the entire surface of his skin tingles with anticipation, for what—he’s not sure. Merlin doesn’t recall casting a spell to suck the air from his lungs, but he seems to be breathless, drowning right here in the doorway to Arthur’s rooms.

Arthur blinks, abruptly breaking the spell, gaze slightly unfocused once more as befits a man with a few under his belt. “None like _you_ ,” he repeats, blue eyes almost rolling back in his head, casting fluttering shadows over his cheeks.

Somehow, Merlin’s heart keeps thumping as he searches Arthur’s face for some indication of meaning, but finds him slackened, already half unconscious. Extricating his shaking hand from around Arthur’s waist, he wedges a shoulder against him to stop him from falling and opens the door, half dragging, half manhandling Arthur inside and to his bed.

With Arthur’s arm still around his shoulders, Merlin tries to let him down gently, but Arthur won’t have it, he won’t let go of Merlin’s neck. He grunts his displeasure and tightens his arm, grasping a fistful of Merlin’s shirt and overbalancing them both until they’re slipping on the slate floor like ungainly puppies.

Arthur drops backward, spilling bonelessly over the plush coverlets and pillows in pink-cheeked, ruffle-feathered, long-limbed disarray.

Merlin is neither so lucky nor so graceful, having landed face down in Arthur’s armpit.

Still wedged against the Prince’s chest by a remarkably strong grip on the neck of his shirt, he finds he can’t easily get out from under Arthur’s arm.

“For crying out loud,” he mutters into Arthur’s flank, exasperated by this ridiculous situation, and the whole evening, and in fact, his _entire life_ \- spent keeping secrets about one thing or another.

 _He’ll be asleep in a minute_ , Merlin thinks, _and then I can slip out._

Blood beats relentlessly in his ears and he realizes that his entire body is so tense; he’s almost a plank of wood thrown across Arthur’s bed. Beside him, the Prince dozes quietly, and Merlin thinks it might be all right to relax a little, just enough not to be so uncomfortably stiff.

Piece by tiny piece, he tries to ease his rigid body into limpness, but somehow there’s always more tension to shed and he hovers, shaking with it, afraid to let it go. Finally, sensing no change in Arthur’s breathing, he allows himself to really sink with a great sigh, relieved beyond measure to finally have lungs full of air again, grinning when Arthur does not stir.

Giving in to the lull of Arthur’s even, deep breaths, Merlin’s eyes widen suddenly as he becomes aware of being gathered so close into the Prince’s solid bulk, they’re literally cuddling.

 _He’ll never know_ , Merlin tells himself while a swarm of butterflies takes flight inside him, _just this once._

He inhales deeply, nuzzling right into Arthur’s side and letting the scent spear him through, from his nose to his balls, to the very soles of his feet. He rasps his stubbled cheek over the deep red and gold of Arthur’s festive tunic and smiles against the velvety suede which drapes Arthur’s hard contours in plush softness.

Arthur shivers, touched by the chill that creeps over the keep in the small hours, and Merlin responds without thinking, he merely flicks his golden-eyed gaze at the dying embers in the hearth, setting them immediately, deliciously alight.

Emboldened by his master’s oblivion, Merlin folds his entire lanky body around Arthur’s solid one, fitting himself into Arthur’s side so perfectly, not even a lick of smoke could come between them.

 _Just for a moment_ , he thinks as the heat from the fire spreads through the room, and as if in response, Arthur’s arm tightens, pressing imprints of ceremonial motifs into Merlin’s cheek. His chest rumbles with a deep, throat-clearing grunt, and Merlin stills rigid again as he realizes the Prince isn’t unconscious after all.

__

“I’ve worked it out,” Arthur rasps suddenly.

“What?” Merlin mutters muffled shock into Arthur’s ribs, scrambling for the ways he can deny all the things that must be denied. Dread burns through his veins, turning blood to ash at the implication that _Arthur knows_.

Arthur snores lightly in response, and Merlin breathes a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived.

“I’ve worked out why you’re different, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur’s eventual reply comes softly, remarkably coherent. “And it’s not just because you’re the village idiot.”

Merlin snorts. “Why then, _Ar_ thur?”

The silence stretches so long, Merlin thinks Arthur has fallen asleep again. But no, just as he gives up hope of knowing, Arthur licks his lips and continues.

“Everyone wants something from me. Everyone but you. You don’t want anything except the clothes you stand in and the food you put in your mouth. You don’t want riches, or advancement, or my father’s ear.”

Merlin swallows thickly, unfolding himself from the Prince’s side. He looks at Arthur’s glistening mouth, as red as if he’d rubbed cherries over it, and waits breathlessly for more words to slip out.

“You’re just you, like nothing else matters. You don’t _want_ anything.” Arthur’s voice fades at the last, and as he turns into the bedding it’s clear he’s finally asleep, mouth slightly ajar, tiny snores rumbling deep in his chest.

Merlin watches him, a guilty ache spreading its smoky fingers around his heart and throttling it. Suddenly, he feels like a fraud.

“You don’t know how wrong you are,” he whispers, knowing the truth of it, though the idea is as new as spring lambs not yet upright on their wobbly legs. He _does_ want something, very much, though he didn’t even know it until this moment.

With Arthur’s arm still around his shoulders, he lowers himself to lie next to the Prince, imaging they’re still lazing in the sunny heather, free as larks.

 _Just a moment longer,_ he thinks, closing his eyes against the real world.

__


	4. Bright

“Oh, Gods,” Arthur rasps roughly into soft fur, in a voice not at all like his own. He’s vaguely surprised to be speaking at all, past the mouthful of grit which appears to line his mouth and throat.

He groans again just for the hell of it, wishing he had someone else to blame for his affliction.

Everything hurts.

His whole body aches, latticed with seams and creases of the clothing he slept in, and his face feels like someone else’s, as though it’s encased in puffy skin too big for his own skull.

And _why_ is he still wearing last night’s clothing? Didn’t Merlin—

A stab of anxiety twists his gut, and stops him mid-thought. Merlin.

Arthur braves turning into the fur softly tickling his face and scrapes open his bleary eyes, only to find that he’s nestled against the nape of Merlin’s neck.

The fur is not fur at all, it’s Merlin’s thatch of crow’s wing hair.

_Oh._

The anxious knot under his ribs morphs into a pounding rush of blood through his veins as Arthur scrambles to imagine what this might mean, and what he’s supposed to do about it.

Unable to grasp anything while his mind’s still stupid with drink, he settles for closing his eyes again and simply continuing to breathe.

Moments pass and Merlin hasn’t stirred while Arthur lies beside him, slowly burning.

His eyes feel much better closed, so he keeps them that way, because he doesn’t need them to feel every single place that his body touches the boy’s.

Except, he’s not a boy, is he?

He’s slender, even skinny, but Merlin is no boy—it’s only his unassuming innocence that makes him seem so.

Arthur allows himself a good, long sniff at the bony knot where spine meets neck, moving his nose into Merlin’s hair so imperceptibly that even he can pretend it never happened.

Or he could have pretended, until he finds his hand there, too, tentative fingers gently lifting the neck of Merlin’s shirt away so he can peek underneath at the small, perfectly round freckle which rides on Merlin’s left shoulder.

Arthur knew it would be there. He spied it once when walking into Gaius’ rooms unannounced to find Merlin dressing, and himself a little breathless at the sight of a graceful neck and elegantly turned back, and so much clear, pale skin which surely belongs on some pampered courtier, and not on a peasant.

He saw it then, the small imperfection making the lure of Merlin’s beautiful back all the more irresistible.

The tiny prize hides modestly out of the way, but Arthur doesn’t care, he _will_ have it, like he has always had anything he wanted.

And so he does, with one long finger pressing gently over it and into sleeping Merlin’s warm skin.

He holds Merlin there under the pad of his finger as though this will stop him from ever moving, and swallows dryly, painfully.

Everything still hurts, but now Arthur tingles with _this_ , too, this indefinable _thing_ that Merlin exudes, and which has been tightening its hold on Arthur for several weeks now, since Merlin first arrived at court.

Does he _know_ he does it? Is he _aware_ of his androgynous charm? He’s tall and so lithe and perfectly proportioned, if a little knobbly—a pretty manchild.

Day after day, he tempts and beguiles with those long lashes and bright pink mouth, and that intoxicating eagerness to please sitting as plainly on his face as the ears on his head.

It makes Arthur’s palms sweat.

Sometimes, Arthur’s carefully stern face slips into wonder and he finds himself watching Merlin eat, or talk or sulk.

He finds himself watching more often as time passes, and who could help it? Merlin’s an enigma.

So often, Arthur—who is no fool, despite his pigheadedness—has suspected Merlin less of clumsy, helpless idiocy and more of calculated bumbling.

It’s as though Merlin uses it to draw attention away from suspiciously nimble hands, and the propensity to be at the right place, at the right time.

Merlin is like a woodland myth with all that gaunt, lean beauty and ridiculously fascinating features, and Arthur knows, _he knows_ , Merlin is hiding something, though he hasn’t a clue what it might be.

Oblivious to Arthur’s scrutiny, Merlin sleeps on, nestled among furs and soft finery in the prince’s bed.

Listening to Merlin’s deep, even breaths, Arthur becomes a little bolder, holding off his bursting bladder and burning, parched throat.

A chance such as this might not come again, and like the hunter he is, he takes an opportunity when one presents itself.

Burying his face in Merlin’s short, soft hair, he inhales until his lungs are full of warm skin and dried herbs and parchments and something that’s just _Merlin_.

Arthur could take this, take _him_ , the way he wants.

Merlin would almost certainly let him do whatever he liked, and Arthur would make it good, could make Merlin like it, he knows he could.

He takes his fingers away from Merlin’s skin and curls them until they’re cutting half moons into his palms, all the while feeling himself harden with wanting.

He imagines what it might be like with this beautifully fragile, fey man, as finely made as a creature living between worlds.

Suppressing the urge to nip at Merlin’s neck to wake him, and show him, and _have_ him, Arthur rolls away onto his back instead.

Merlin _would_ almost certainly let him- Arthur is the Crown Prince. There are not many things that he can’t have, not many who would deny him. But would Merlin _want_ it?

Arthur finds that while it hasn’t always mattered in the past, it matters now.

It matters with Merlin, who looks after Arthur with all the diligence of a friend. They shouldn’t be friends- there are those at court whose rank is more fitting to such an honor, but there it is.

Arthur would not push modest, trusting Merlin into something wrought purely for his own pleasure, no matter how much he craves it, how much his blood heats and his cock thickens with wanting.

He smiles bitterly, choking on the knowledge that Merlin’s life is made up of all the things he can’t have- the freedom to loll around in a meadow, to leave as he pleases, to love whom he loves.

He’s the epitome of all the things Arthur can never be or have.

And so he lies next to his sleeping temptation and closes his eyes to the delicious scruff on Merlin’s jaw and the little hollow behind his ear where his heartbeat pulses.

He tries to ignore the steady throbbing in his groin, stirred by Merlin’s warmth and the proximity of his coltish body laid out on his bed.

He won’t think about reaching a calloused hand to knead and rub Merlin until he begs for it, or pinning him under his heavy thigh so he can rut against him while kissing him breathless.

No.

He won’t think about any of it, though his jaw is tight enough to snap and the palms of his hands might be bleeding.

Perhaps Merlin senses his internal battle, because it isn’t long before the change in his breathing gives him away. “Arthur?” he murmurs quietly and lifts his head.

Arthur doesn’t look at him, lest the war within is plain on his face. He builds his armor about himself and crawls back into his life with clawed fingers and gritted teeth.

“About time you woke up,” he says, mustering up his best arrogant sneer.

Merlin spins, the shock at his whereabouts plain on his red-lined face.

A glistening smear of drool lines his bottom lip, and Arthur tuts. It’s either that, or smiling at this red-eared, pink-cheeked, bed-headed idiot whose clothes are so rumpled that half his skinny, flat belly peeks through where his shirt rides up, and ridges of bone under fair skin are revealed in the laced opening at his neck.

 _I won’t look. I won’t look_ , Arthur chants, then looks. And looks.

“What?” Merlin mumbles, still confused with sleep, and Arthur can’t help it, it’s too easy to slip back into the rhythm they share. He answers without thinking even as his eyes raze Merlin’s skin like wildfire.

“Yes, _what._ _What_ are you doing here? Next comes where- _where_ is my breakfast? Don’t make me go through the _why_ and the _who_ , Merlin, I’m really not in the mood.”

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” Merlin stutters, assuming the role of the hapless servant so seamlessly, Arthur wonders how he ever thought him capable of hiding something.

Merlin rolls from Arthur’s bed and after a couple of false starts and some arm flailing, decides he does indeed know where the door is.

He stops once he gets to it, and turns back to the bed, his eyes downcast with embarrassment.

“What will you do today, Sire?”

It doesn’t escape Arthur’s notice that he’s _Sire_ now, not Arthur. Not mate.

“First, I’m gonna piss like a horse,” Arthur blathers, putting as much distance as he can between his intense need and tenderness of moments ago and his current belligerence, “Then eat a hearty breakfast prepared by my manservant—hopefully today—then ride out and kill some things. Now hurry up, would you? I’m starving.”

He’s anything but, as Merlin’s shoulders visibly drop. The mere thought of food makes him want to heave almost as much as the dejection on Merlin’s face, but he allows him to leave without another word.

Nausea makes his gut roil with bile, and he hates himself for his cruelty.

Turning to the window, he closes his eyes against the bright sliver of sunshine stealing through a gap in the heavy curtains, trying not to make it into a metaphor for his whole life.


	5. Unsure

Merlin runs from the prince’s rooms as though physically propelled by Arthur’s own cold hands. He feels desperation chasing him down the hall, burning up his spine and curling into his throat, and ridiculously, he feels like he might cry. He comes to a dead stop against a granite column which looks like it holds up the whole damn castle and gives it his burden, too, turning to it like a friend’s shoulder.

  
He tries to compose himself before anyone sees him snivelling like a girl. Furiously, he scrubs life into his face, attempting to dislodge the remains of the deepest sleep he’d had in months, and hurt that stings like skin rubbed raw.  
  
His sleeve comes away wet and Merlin wishes he could punch himself in the face for it.  
  
Arthur wasn’t himself last night; too drunk to know what he was doing, too relaxed to keep up the boundaries between the prince and the servant. Now, in the cold light of day, everything is back to normal and Merlin feels like a fool.  
  
What the hell was he thinking anyway, falling asleep in Arthur’s bed like that? What was he hoping to achieve with _that_ stupid stunt?  
  
 _Nothing. Not hoping for anything. Just wanted to close my eyes for a minute ’s all. Was tired. Fell asleep._  
  
His mother’s words beat around in his head while he casts careful glances all around, like a thief. _You’re a terrible liar, Merlin. Your eyes. It’s all there in your eyes for anyone to see._  
  
Anyone except Arthur, thankfully.  
  
Merlin breathes deeply and arranges his features into something resembling mildly chagrined, which is normal when he comes from Arthur’s rooms, instead of deeply, hopelessly wounded.  
  
Why should this matter? Why should Arthur’s thoughtlessness hurt so much more today than any other time? The prince has been this way as long as Merlin has known him—which is admittedly not that long—short and snide, if not plain cruel.  
  
Ah. Therein lies the truth.  
  
 _Arthur_ has always been this way.  
  
It is Merlin himself, who has changed.  
  
And maybe if he hadn’t lain in the swaying heather with his shoulder radiating tingling heat for hours afterward, or if he hadn’t suddenly begun to watch the nape of Arthur’s neck like the secrets of the universe waited under his sweat-darkened blond hair... Maybe  _then_  he could brush off Arthur’s callousness. Maybe  _then_  he could take it in stride like he always has.  
  
But no, not even then. Because Kilgharrah has made it clear that Merlin and Arthur’s paths lead to the same great merge, upon which the fruition of Albion resides. Yet here is skinny, insignificant Merlin with the one gift he can’t even use, and here is Arthur, with too many gifts to count and everything he needs already there within his grasp.  
  
Not for the first time, Merlin envisages himself walking away, satchel over his shoulder, not looking back. It’s such a tempting vision. Too bad it makes him feel like the worst kind of coward.  
  
Still, he considers it, if only to put distance between himself and the prince, to dampen down the heat he feels deep in his belly and to quiet the roar of blood in his ears because this can’t be good, this can’t be right. And it’s the most ridiculous thing ever, because he needs to deny it to survive here, but how can he deny _this_ —wasn’t that Merlin, with his nose digging little furrows into Arthur’s side last night to get close to the scent and the delicious body heat of the man? And wasn’t that him staring at Arthur’s red mouth, slack in sleep  _but Gods_ , still perfect, still so beau—  
  
But the moment Merlin half-thinks these things, the moment they’re actual thoughts in his mind, he claps a lid over them and screws it down tight, because those things can’t be. They didn’t happen.  
  
They didn’t.  
  
 _Liar._  
  
Clutching his head in his hands, he breathes deeply and feels the tip of that skilled blade slipping so easily between his ribs, flesh as pliant as warmed wax to its unforgiving sharpness. He hates this pain and revels in it, too, knowing now exactly what it means, but unable to stop himself feeling it. It’s his infatuation slipping into vulnerable flesh, feeling like divine conviction and hopeless agony at the same time.  
  
When he finally pushes off the column and starts for the kitchens, it occurs to him that he’s hiding even more now than ever, not just the thing he was born with, but the thing that was born inside him without him knowing it. That stray seed blown in by fate lays roots in his chest.  
  
Is  _this_ why Kilgharrah knows their destinies to be intertwined? Is  _this_  why Merlin will ever fight at Arthur’s side? Will he nurse this engorged heart for the rest of his life, watching Arthur love, and marry, and father sons to rule after him?  
  
Merlin closes his eyes against the overflowing bitterness, and balls his hands at his sides.  
  
The winged beast has betrayed him yet again, knowing that Merlin would have run, had he known.  
  
Well, no matter. He can’t run now. It’s much harder to leave behind your heart and soul than it is an uncaring, ungrateful lord, no matter his grand destiny.  
  
And finally, as he straightens into a semblance of himself, his mind betrays him too. While he tries to think of nothing and to concentrate on his chores, it’s a Sisyphean task, doomed to fail again and again.  
  
On the outside, he’s just Merlin, a little absent today, is all. On the inside though, he’s a scratched and broken loop of dirty blond hair plastered to the back of a sweaty nape, the heather’s purple sprigs, pink skin all warm from sleep, and a perfect mouth forming the beautiful shape of ugly words.  
  
 _~sb~_  
  
It’s mid morning before Arthur’s horse is saddled and the knights assembled, and Merlin can’t help but wonder at the sense of this hunting trip—if they were serious, they’d have set out at dawn to set up a campsite from which to foray into the woods to hunt.  
  
Sure enough, it’s a complete fiasco, with Arthur too hung over to take it seriously. He grumps and growls his way through the entire day until they’re all sullen and quiet, eager to get back to bathe and eat, and get the hell away from each other.  
  
The woods are dark and deep today, overcast skies and dense canopy lending it an unearthly gloom. Hidden things live in these woods, existing in the periphery, on the outer of consciousness. The eeriness taints them all with an undercurrent of pent-up agitation.  
  
For the most part, Merlin tries to keep his eyes to himself and his thoughts even more so, unable to stomach the storm that brews over Arthur’s head as the afternoon wears on. It’s a palpable thing- he doesn’t even have to look to sense it, to know it’s there, like a literal thundercloud following Arthur around as he weaves among the trees in his clinking mail.  
  
They’ve spoken briefly—monosyllabically—during the course of the day, but it’s not until they’re on horseback again and returning to Camelot that the tension seems to ease a little. They ride in single file, Arthur in the lead with Merlin at his back, then the knights, with a field-dressed wild boar carcass slung over a pack horse bringing up the rear.  
  
Behind them, the knights have fallen back slightly, sensing Arthur’s mood requires solitude. Only Merlin rides close behind, helplessly drawn, still wanting to be needed, wishing he could use magic to knock them all out and instantly transport them back into their own beds. They could all get up in the morning and be totally oblivious to this horrible, drawn-out agony of a day. He could spirit the boar into the keep's kitchens like it’s an orphan left at the door of a nunnery, and that would be that.

  
Sadly, he’d still remember, though. He’d remember last night and Arthur’s happy, sloppy grins, his heavy arm like a hot yoke around Merlin’s neck, his scent, _his scent_! There isn’t anything in the world that could make Merlin forget _that_ , not even the polar opposite experience of today’s ridiculous excuse for a hunting party. He hands clench and nostrils flare a little just at the memory.  
  
Suddenly, it seems that the prince is slowing. Merlin sits up straighter, instantly on alert, immediately pinging with hot spikes of adrenalin.  
  
Unsure of Arthur’s intent in allowing Merlin to catch up to his big bay, Merlin continues on until they’re riding side by side, and he feels Arthur’s eyes slide and snag, dragging over him like the spikes of a flail.  
  
He shoots the prince a quick glance, daring only to rest his eyes on the cape clasp at Arthur’s shoulder, but it’s enough to ascertain that Arthur’s jaw is a tight knot of unsaid words.  
  
He finally speaks a few minutes later, by which time Merlin wants to throw up. He probably would, had he managed to eat anything today, but anxiety has always completely put him off food, and his insides are twisted like rope.  
  
“Merlin,” Arthur says gruffly, then clears his throat, then perplexingly falls silent again.  
  
“Sire?” he prompts, but Arthur just gives him a quick frown from beneath furrowed brows. Merlin rides on, strangely silent, when he’d normally be bantering and irreverent and _himself_ , and waits for Arthur to continue his train of thought, which he will, because Arthur always finishes everything he starts.  
  
Abruptly, Arthur barks out a laugh, and Merlin finally looks up, stares at the prince’s throat working, his Adam’s apple dipping beneath the skin.  
  
“What’s funny?” he finally asks, really confused now as well as strung tighter than Arthur’s crossbow.  
  
“Nothing. Nothing,” Arthur repeats, like he’s convincing himself. Abruptly straightening in the saddle, he clears his throat. “What chores will Gaius have for you when we return?”  
  
“I...I don’t... what? I’m not...” Merlin replies, wondering if he should know this. Should he know this? He should know this.  
  
Arthur huffs, muttering under his breath,  _difficult_ , and  _for Gods’ sake_ , and  _simple_  and Merlin reddens, fingers clutching tightly at the reins of his horse, weighing up if it’s best to answer or to leave the prince to the conversation he seems to be having with himself, but it’s the  _simple_  that does it.  
  
“I’m not simple!” he exclaims, and wishes he could cram it back in, after Arthur gives him  _the look_.  
  
“I did not say  _you_  were simple,” Arthur says from the side of his mouth. “Even though I really wonder sometimes. I said that  _the question_  was simple.”  
  
“Oh,” Merlin offers weakly. Then, “What was the question?”  
  
And then Arthur laughs, really laughs, for what seems like the first time in days. He laughs so honestly and freely that Merlin’s stomach clenches with joy. He watches Arthur’s face light up with it, but Merlin’s the one with an explosion of bright, yellow heat in his gut. He can’t help but smile, too, and everything is lighter and instantly more bearable, now that Arthur’s muddy mood has lifted.  
  
The prince throws back his head and the laughter that bubbles out scares most of the forest’s population into flapping and scurrying away from the sound. All the animals which had evaded them through the day are suddenly everywhere, bounding and leaping out of the way, but none of the hunting party care, because in this moment, golden boy is happy and nothing else matters.  
  
Merlin doesn’t even notice the frantic rider bearing down on them, Camelot’s colours like a sail flapping on the breeze behind him. He hardly notices anything at all, except for Arthur’s white teeth and the music of his laughter as his whole body quakes with it, bright blue eyes almost green with the hue of the canopy above them.  
  
What is it about those eyes? From the purple of the heather to the viridian of the forest, nature infuses its beauty into them, lavishing them with colour. Merlin can’t get enough of those eyes. Nothing exists except the halo of warmth around his chest when Arthur is this happy, this free. Merlin’s skin tingles with it, magic stinging his fingertips like an effervescent spring.  
  
He’s still entranced as Arthur’s attention snaps to the path ahead, and all levity is lost. The messenger’s horse thunders to a stop directly in front of them, dislodging globs of mud with its ironclad hooves, and Arthur’s attention spearheads to the rider’s sweaty, panting face.  
  
“What news from my father?” he asks, his eyes hard again, and stormy.  
  
“The King requires your presence immediately, my Lord, reports of skirmishes are coming in from the western outpost, and a counsel is set to convene the moment you return to court.”  
  
In the distance, thunder rolls across the grey skies, and Merlin’s skin prickles with foreboding. He watches Arthur’s back as the prince speeds to Camelot, and the familiar swaying shape of the kingdom’s best hope pierces him like a splinter under the fingernail, sharp and immediate, stopping the breath in his lungs.  
  
As the knights pass him by in a rush of glinting mail and a rumble of horses, Arthur’s words from last night echo in his mind, spectral and fleeting like bats in the night.  
  
 _I will need you soon._


End file.
